22 THEBIGISSUE4–17APR2014
OCCASIONALLY SOMETHING HAPPENS
that makes you review your attitude to life.
I want to share an experience I had a little
while back that changed my attitude and,
I hope, made me a more caring person.
I was cycling home from work along
the cycle path next to the Yarra River.
It was a beautiful Melbourne evening:
tourists were ambling along, commuters
hurrying to their trains and trams. I was
enjoying the mild weather and watching
the rowers on the river.
As I passed under Princes Bridge a
young man stepped out and waved me
down. He had an accent but his English
was good. He said: “Should we do
something about that man over there?”
I looked to where he was pointing. A
man, probably in his early twenties,
was lying down – apparently comatose
–
next to the arch of the bridge. His
shirt was unbuttoned to the waist.
Around one bicep was an improvised
tourniquet; a discarded syringe lay next
to him, together with the empty bladder
from a wine cask.
I am ashamed to say that my first
thought was: I don’t really want to get
involved here; it’s just a junkie who’s
overdosed. But the young man, whom
I learned was a German tourist, was
insistent. “Do you think we should call
for an ambulance?”
I am equally ashamed that my
second thought was: If I refuse to
help, then this foreigner will think I
am uncaring and callous. And he will
probably then think that all Australians
are uncaring and callous.
So I reluctantly got out my phone and
dialled 000 and asked for an ambulance
for a man who, I said, looked as if he
had overdosed. The woman on the other
end was warm and friendly and kept me
engaged. “Can you tell if he is breathing?”
I went closer. “Yes, he’s breathing”.
“Is he conscious?”
“I don’t think so”.
She asked me to turn him over...
But I looked at the syringe and said: “I
would really prefer not to touch him.”
She understood. Then she congratulated
me on being so caring. I didn’t tell her
that my first impulse was to ignore him.
By this time we were attracting a bit
of attention. Bystanders were peering
down at us from the bridge parapet. A
waiter from the nearby terrace bar came
over and said: “Yes, he’s been here all
afternoon.” That stunned me. Perhaps
we were an uncaring and callous nation.
All those in the restaurant had sat in the
sun enjoying their wine and food while
someone was possibly dying next to
them. Dozens of people had walked or
cycled past a comatose body.
And I would have been one of them,
were it not for a concerned foreigner.
The paramedics arrived, running,
and clamped an oxygen mask on the
young man.
He coughed and spluttered and came
to. “What’s your name?” they asked
him. “David,” he replied.
David. A name that loving parents
would give a newborn son together with
their hopes and dreams for his future. As
soon as the anonymous man had a name,
he ceased being just a dirty junkie to me. It
was a shock – the realisation that he could
be someone’s brother, someone’s son.
Once we know someone’s name they
have an identity. They are not junkies,
or derelicts, or homeless, or refugees,
or asylum seekers. They are someone’s
brother, someone’s son, someone’s
sister, someone’s daughter. Someone’s
loved one.
I have since asked myself: why was
my first reaction not to stop? And I
think the answer is fear. Fear of getting
involved; fear of looking foolish; fear of
the unknown; and, of course, fear for
my personal safety. I wonder if I would
have had the courage, like that German
tourist, to stop in a foreign country
and ask for help in another language?
Possibly not, but at least I could do that
kind deed in my own homeland.
I sometimes think of David. I wonder
what became of him. Perhaps he held up
a store to feed his drug addiction and is
now in prison. Perhaps he took one fatal
overdose in a remote place where no one
found him in time. Perhaps – simply
because, one evening, a caring tourist
worried about him – his life has changed
and he is now a valuable member of
society who is back with his family. Back
being a well-loved son and brother.
The experience didn’t change my life,
but it did change my attitude... And I
truly hope and believe it has made me a
little more caring and considerate.
» Ann has recently retired from paid
work and spends her time looking after
her baby grandson, volunteering with
FareShare, writing and trying to find
time to ride her bike.
SOMEONE’S BROTHER,
SOMEONE’S SON
A TRUE STORY BY ANN BANHAM.
*‘David’isnothisrealname.